Pavlov rings his bell
ever so delicately
Pavlov drags me along
though I yearn to be free
and every sensation
with laser precision
haunts all that I do
an indelible derision

but even though Pavlov released me
long ago, before a world anew
all that I do and all that I see
feels, hurts, rings like that little bell
louder than the solace of time

I feel as though I'm on the verge of some resolution, a denouement of sorts. Thoughts have been drifting back to days gone by, to memories I once halfheartedly hoped would be left dormant.

I want to fix things. Not just between us, but for everyone and for everything.

But I don't know how to go about doing so. I mean, I can certainly deal with not resolving things, but being able to tie up loose ends or make amends would just really make me feel better.

Ugh. Relapse, redux.

I want to write someone a letter. But, as Rainer Maria Rilke wrote, "If I am changing, then surely I am no longer the person I was, and if I am something else than heretofore, then it is clear that I have no acquaintances. And to strange people, to people who do not know me, I cannot possibly write."


I hate the fact that what I'm writing is a disjointed stream of consciousness with absolutely no direction whatsoever. Maybe that's why I have no readers.

I'm terribly frustrated. I'm such a shitty writer.